


Delusions

by unnideul



Series: spiraling [1]
Category: Block B, K-pop, Speed (Kpop)
Genre: Fanfiction, Incest, M/M, Male Slash, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-23
Updated: 2014-09-23
Packaged: 2018-02-18 13:38:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2350337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unnideul/pseuds/unnideul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Trigger warning: heavy mentions of incest)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delusions

_1711w_ . R (nsfw) . 2Woo . _Delusions_.

——

There’s _something_ about him. There’s always been _something_ about him. When I was younger, I’d say it was just the kind of admiration that one has for their older brother. He was bigger, smarter, wiser, he knew things about life that I’d yet to learn. Growing up I wanted nothing more than to be him. I idolized Taewoon like he’d been born some kind of God and I was lucky enough to just exist in his presence. Even to this day, there’s a part of me that still does.

Even as I sit across the room watching him do something as simple as work, there’s something about him.

Maybe it’s the way his eyes scan over the scribbled words on the paper in front of him (last night, I was the object of his focus, those familiar dark eyes drinking me in, like he’d never seen me before and would never see me again, wanting to remember all the details of me that he already knew so well.).

Maybe it’s the way his fingers drum anxiously against the top of the desk, mentally struggling to get lyrics to form the right way in his head (last night, those same fingers mapped every inch of my skin, found their way inside of me and left me a writhing, exhausted mess on his bed.)

Maybe it’s the subtle way his lips form the very words he’s trying to write, repeating them over and over until he can practically recite them in his sleep (last night, those very lips burned as he kissed me, set my body on fire as he whispered into my ear all the things he’s imagined us doing.)

And, what a vivid imagination it was.

_'I've wanted to fuck you like this for weeks. You feel so fucking good.'_

I can still hear them.

Shit, I can still practically feel him; his hands on my hips, his body against mine, his tongue leaving a wet trail as it moves down the notches in my spine sending shivers through me that are more intense than I can ever remember having.

But, there he sits now. The two of us in absolute silence, focused on the work in front of him, in his own little world where I don’t seem to exist and everything that takes place between the four walls of his bedroom is nothing more than my imagination getting ahead of itself. Just some stupid, sick little fantasy that he plays no part in.

I can’t say anything. If I ask him, he’ll deny it.

_'I was hella fucked up last night, I don't remember shit.'_

Maybe he can forget, maybe he can push it to the back of his mind and bury it away with the rest of his forgotten memories, but the way he looks between my thighs with his mouth wrapped around me and his hand jerking himself off…

That image in burned in my fucking mind. That feeling is ingrained in my memory.

The way he’ll beg for me to come, because I know the kind of satisfaction he gets from it. I know how much he likes having that control over me, how much he wants to dominate, put me into my place because that’s the kind of game that we play with one another. Because that’s the kind of thing that gets him off. He’ll ask who I belong to and when I say it’s him, I can practically hear the satisfaction he gets from it (and feel it in the way he slams his hips into mine, fucking me harder.).

But if I ask him anything, he’ll say I’m fucking mental.

He’ll tell me he loves me.

He doesn’t mean it the way I do.

He says it because we’re from the same place, the same blood, the same genes. He loves me because he’s grown up loving me and knows nothing different. He’s grown up taking care of me and the feeling he has isn’t weird to him.

_'I love you, bro. Don’t forget it, ok?'_

I can say it back, but only at the right times. When he has my legs pushed back and he’s fucking me, I can’t say it.

I know I can’t because I have before.

_'Fuck. I love you.'_

He stopped right away, confusion flashing in his eyes before they narrowed into a familiar glare. How could I have been that fucking stupid?

 _'What the fuck?'_  
‘Shit, I can explain. Hyung, jus—’  
‘Leave, Ji.’  
‘But—’  
‘Get the fuck out.’

I wouldn’t tell him I cried that night. I wouldn’t tell anyone I did. Not because I felt like an idiot (which I did. The biggest fucking idiot.), but because everything suddenly became real to me. Like a speeding train, it hit me. This wasn’t serious, Taewoon loved me, but he didn’t _love_ me the way I loved him and there was no part of him that ever would. He didn’t sit up and night with the need to just have me close, he didn’t want to come back to my apartment and simply spend time with me.

He liked our secret when it benefited him. He liked it because it was purely physical and that was all that he was looking for at the time. When it had started all either of us wanted was a way to get off, he could quit me at any time and I was helplessly, hopelessly devoted to him. I was an addict and Taewoon was my drug of choice.

Like we’d ever actually be able to become something _real_. Like one day he’d come around and admit he loved me more than in a familial way. Like he’d say ‘fuck the rest of the world and society’s ideals, I want you, Jiho.’.

Then what? We’d live happily ever after with one another? I’d take him home and introduce him to our mother? What the fuck was I on?

Maybe I really am the biggest fucking idiot around. All the evidence seems to point to it.

I’ve fucked my brother. Not only once, but more times than I can even remember (who the fuck am I kidding? It’s been exactly 7 months that we’ve been playing this stupid game with one another.). More than that, I’ve fallen in love with him and I’m stupid enough to think that eventually he’ll come around. That all those things he says in the heat of the moment are true, despite the fact that he claims to have no memory of them the next morning.

For someone who doesn’t remember fucking me, he sure has it down to a science.

“Jiho. Are you fucking listening?” His voice is deep, scratchy even—much more so than my own and I’ll admit I’ve always been envious.—and it rips me from my thoughts. How long had he been talking? How long had I been ignoring him?

What did he say?

“Sorry, hyung. I spaced for a sec….” A lie that I’m sure he saw right through. I’d never been good at lying to him, or to anyone for that matter.

Nothing he said was important, he simply repeated the words on his paper. I wanted to care, I wanted to give him honest critique about the lyrics (because they could’ve used a bit of work, if I was planning on being truthful.), but his words were drowned out by my thoughts.

More than my own thoughts, the way his lips moved were more distracting. I wanted more than anything to lean in and feel them against my own again, feel them moving lower, finding all those spots that he knows so well, but still acts as though each one is a surprise when he discovers it.

Words formed on the tip of my tongue; I wanted to tell him to kiss me, tell him to touch me, tell him to whisper all those dirty little secrets that he tells me in the darkness of his bedroom. Unfortunately, not a single one comes out.

Because I’ll know the look he’ll give me. The glare that I won’t be able to escape.

Because I know the words he’ll say. Harsh and sharp like razors, but cutting much deeper than any psychical ones ever could.

Because I know that while I sit here and accept that I’ve fallen for him, he acts like everything we do doesn’t exist. Like it’s all a dream that he wakes up from each morning.

The difference is that when he wakes up, I’m still there. Wrapped around his body, my face pressed into his neck, my hands still moving over his skin, trying desperately to keep the moment between us that I know is only seconds away from ending.

It’s always the same; he shoves me away, rolls over and makes a bee line to the shower. I know what he’s doing, trying to wash everything off. Trying to erase the memory that I know flashes in his mind the same way it does mine.

No amount of soap and water can get rid of it. I’ll still feel him, he’ll still feel me. He can try, but just as I’m addicted to him, he’s just as addicted to me.

Only, I’ll admit it. Some part of me likes to think I’m the ‘bigger person’, I’m ‘being the adult’ or some cliche bullshit. Like, being either of those things makes up for the fact that I’ve become such a fucked up individual.

"Sounds good." Too much time had passed for it to sound sincere (because it wasn’t.) and I could tell from the way Taewoon’s eyes flashed with obvious annoyance, the way his jaw clenched because he knew I was talking out of my ass, rather than actually being helpful.

Even the way his pen scratched at the paper in front of him was out of spite, anger, annoyance.

I opened my mouth to speak; clear the air, tell a joke, anything to ease the tension that I could just about feel settling between us. But, before any words could form, headphones were back in his ears and he was back in his world.

In my world, the real world, it was silent.

And I was used to it, from him at least.


End file.
